


All the Way Home I’ll Be Warm

by animeangelriku



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Romance, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28709655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animeangelriku/pseuds/animeangelriku
Summary: Crowley accompanies his best friend Aziraphale to his job’s holiday party in an attempt to protect him from his wanker coworkers. But after they get masterfully split up, discussions are had, confessions are exchanged, and Crowley might just end up changing his opinion on holiday parties for the better.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 168
Collections: Good Snowmens Winter Gift Exchange





	All the Way Home I’ll Be Warm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slateblueflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers/gifts).



> written for the Good Snowmens: The Nice and Accurate Winter Gift Exchange of GO Events, Discord Server, for the prompt of "love confessions at a holiday party"! i am SO sorry about how late this is! i got a job and then got COVID and then lost half of what i had written and this is the first time i’ve ever written a human au for these two, so i hope i did a good job and that you like your present! hopefully it was worth the wait!! <333

Holiday parties are not Crowley’s thing. In fact, he hates them. Absolutely loathes them, you couldn’t pay him to go to one and stay for just two minutes. Ten seconds at a holiday party is ten seconds too many, in Crowley’s not so humble opinion. Being forced to interact with his coworkers outside of the workplace when the last thing he wants is to see their bloody faces longer than he should is his worst nightmare come to life.

But even worse than that is the thought of letting Aziraphale down when his best friend needs him the most.

“You really didn’t have to do this, you know,” Aziraphale is saying now as they stand in front of the building where his holiday party is taking place. Giant-ass building, the kind Crowley assumes is made to be rented out for this sort of thing. “I would have been fine on my own.”

That is a lie, and Crowley is well aware of it. Aziraphale might dislike his coworkers sometimes, if his complaints to Crowley about them are anything to go by, but from those same complaints, Crowley can tell that Aziraphale’s coworkers despise him. They seem to belittle and poke fun at Aziraphale as much as they can, and it makes Crowley’s blood burn with rage.

Aziraphale is so much better than those wankers. Aziraphale is the best fucking person in the entire goddamn world, and Crowley will not let him walk into the lions’ den on his own—not if he’s got anything to say about it.

“I know,” he says. “But I’d rather spend my Friday night getting sloshed with you than getting sloshed on my own.”

Aziraphale bites his cheek, but Crowley can see he’s trying to hold back a smile. “And I would rather not get drunk out of my wits in front of my boss, Crowley.”

Crowley knows this, too, and he plans to do everything in his power to have them be the most sober people in the party. They can always go back to Aziraphale’s ridiculously tiny flat for a drink. It’s much more fun when it’s only the two of them, anyway, in a place where they don’t have to be afraid of letting loose and being themselves.

Aziraphale glances at the door of the building like he’s considering the idea of walking away. Crowley almost opens his mouth to try to convince him of following this idea, and under any other circumstances, he would. But Aziraphale is, unfortunately, at the bottom of the corporate ladder, and willfully deciding not to go to his holiday party would do more harm than good in the long run, starting Monday morning and continuing for the duration of Aziraphale’s employment.

“C’mon, angel.” Crowley bumps their shoulders together in what he hopes comes across as comradery. “Just say hello to your insufferable boss—don’t give me that look, we both know it’s true—shake a few hands, steal some of the snacks, and we can get out of here.”

“Excuse me, it’s not stealing if the snacks are paid for,” Aziraphale says.

“It is when you take some of them home with you,” Crowley argues with a mischievous smirk.

“I don’t think that’s how that works, my dear.”

The pet name sends warmth through Crowley’s chest, the way it’s done for the last six years. Aziraphale calls everybody that, and yet it sounds different when he says it to Crowley. Perhaps that’s just wishful thinking, the desperate hope of his lovesick heart, but he usually tries not to think too much about it. He’s gone down that rabbit hole and it’s not a place he likes getting to often.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, very seriously. “Please. Just let me have this.”

Aziraphale makes a big show of rolling his eyes, but he does not add anything else.

Crowley bumps their shoulders together again and steps towards the door. He wants to go in first to keep acting as Aziraphale’s shield, and luckily for him, Aziraphale has nothing against the idea, as he quietly follows behind Crowley as he walks inside the building.

The music is the first thing Crowley notices. Tacky holiday shit, as should probably be expected from a tacky holiday party. He used to think it was hilarious, having the same old songs playing on the radio since November, but now he just thinks it’s annoying as all hell. He supposes the people around him are either too drunk to notice or too drunk to care.

The second thing Crowley notices is that the inside of the building, despite not having any walls or cubicles to split the giant room in different spaces, feels more claustrophobic than the outside, which is saying something. Maybe that’s just him.

He shoots a glance at Aziraphale and sees him looking around nervously.

Oh, good, so it’s not just him then.

Crowley bumps their shoulders together again. He’s never been that good at words, he doesn’t like books or fancy figures of speech like Aziraphale does, but he still hopes the action can convey what he wants to say.

_You’re not alone. I’ve got you._

Aziraphale smiles softly and returns the gesture. He’s always been able to understand Crowley, even when Crowley doesn’t entirely understand himself.

“So,” Crowley says, just loud enough to be heard over the music as he and Aziraphale make their way through the horde of people. “Where’s shithead Gabriel meant to be?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale swats at his arm so lightly that Crowley can barely feel it over his jacket. “You promised you’d behave!”

“’s not like he can hear me!” Crowley replies. “I’ll behave in front of him, really!”

And he will. He will not do anything to jeopardize Aziraphale’s job. But he can have a little fun while it’s still just the two of them.

For all he’s heard about Gabriel and his little clique of wankers, Crowley doesn’t know what any of Aziraphale’s coworkers look like. He’s pictured them in his head, but in all honesty, his imagination does not paint them in any kind of flattering light. On the contrary, Crowley pictures them like horrible zombie-like people covered in all kinds of nasty, icky stuff. Maybe with an animal on top of their heads, just to really sell them as soul-suckers from corporate hell.

He seems them before Aziraphale does. 

They’re a little farther away from the entrance than would probably be considered polite, and the cynical part of Crowley hisses in his mind that they probably did that on purpose, just to keep Aziraphale cornered in their awful little circle. There’s four people standing closely together, all of them talking amongst themselves with an air of cockiness and self-righteousness that makes Crowley want to gag.

Out of those four people, he can tell who Gabriel is _immediately_. It has to be the idiot wearing a grey suit with a purple tie, his ridiculous hair combed back with enough product to get Crowley through a couple of months. When Gabriel sees them approaching, his teeth pull back in a smile that is anything but genuine.

“Aziraphale!” he says, stepping forward so he can clasp his hands around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “So good of you to join us!”

Interesting choice of words, Crowley thinks, and then his thoughts are occupied by how much he wants Gabriel to stop touching Aziraphale _right now_.

Aziraphale winces, but not long enough for anyone but Crowley to notice it. He smiles nervously and puts on a brave face that makes Crowley want to drag him away, back to his flat.

“Hello, Gabriel, me old mate!” Aziraphale greets him.

It’s only then that Gabriel notices Crowley standing beside him, and his eyes cloud over with something Crowley can’t recognize. Whatever it is, he knows it’s not good.

“Oh,” Gabriel says, finally dropping his hands from Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You brought a plus one.”

There are several things Crowley realizes with Gabriel’s tone. The first is that none of them expected Aziraphale to even _think_ of inviting someone. The second is that they don’t think Crowley is the kind of person who should be at their holiday party, what with his sunglasses and his hair down to his shoulders and the way he holds himself. The third is that Crowley is most definitely not welcome here, but they hope he decides to leave on his own and will make his stay as unbearable as possible in order to make that happen.

Crowley grins widely and holds out his hand. “Hullo. Name’s Crowley.”

“Ah. The famous Mr. Crowley.”

That makes Crowley pause. “‘Famous’?”

“Of course!” says someone behind Gabriel. “Aziraphale here has told us so much about you.”

Next to Crowley, Aziraphale looks like he wants to hunch in on himself. Crowley doesn’t mind if Aziraphale told his coworkers about him. He’s never cared what other people think of him, and much less what these assholes might think of whatever they’ve heard of him.

“Is that so,” Crowley mutters. He opens his mouth to say exactly everything Aziraphale has told him about _them_ , but then Aziraphale is grabbing his arm and squeezing it in warning.

_Behave,_ he remembers and bites his tongue.

He shakes each hand that is offered to him, followed by introductions of names that Crowley forgets almost immediately. The knowledge will stay in his brain, but he’ll only look for it if he needs it.

There’s Michael, Uriel, and Sandy, and all of their smiles are as equally empty and fake as Gabriel’s. Crowley has to stop himself from turning to Aziraphale and asking him out loud, right in front of all of them, “Seriously, do you really work with these people?”

It’s no wonder his friend is so miserable if these are the wankers he’s surrounded by all day long. He dreads to think of how they’ll treat him when he’s with someone they seem to dislike even more than they dislike Aziraphale.

“I must say, _Crowley_ ,” Michael drawls on, pronouncing his name like she doesn’t think it’s real. “We didn’t think Aziraphale was serious when he mentioned your… _knack_ for sunglasses.”

Crowley adjusts said sunglasses on his face. He only takes them off when he’s alone with Aziraphale, and he likes that they serve as an added layer of defense in front of these idiots.

“Eye condition,” he tells them as his explanation. He _does_ have an eye condition, but it’s not nearly as bad as the term might sound. Honestly, he keeps the sunglasses on more as part of his aesthetic than because he needs them. They’re more for others’ sake than his own.

“How unfortunate,” Uriel says, their expression lacking any empathy whatsoever.

Crowley smiles at them. “You get used to it.”

The snacks and drinks flow around them. Aziraphale picks at the little bite-sized sausages and cheese on toothpicks that pass by them on trays carried by waiters, and Crowley makes sure to grab a few and put them in his pockets. He also grabs a few spare ones in case Aziraphale gets peckish on the way home.

“Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?” Gabriel asks at some point, glancing readily between Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Just water for me,” Aziraphale says, which is clearly not the answer Gabriel was hoping for.

“C’mon, Aziraphale,” he says, lightly punching Aziraphale’s arm. Crowley instinctively takes a step closer to his best friend. “No need to be shy! They’ve got some great wines, and I know you liked the champagne from last year’s party.”

“Thank you, Gabriel,” says Aziraphale, his voice growing slightly higher in tone. “But I’m perfectly all right with just water.”

“Now, Aziraphale,” Sandy begins with a nasty grin that Crowley wants to punch right off his face.

“I’m sorry, is the music too loud for you gents to hear correctly?” Crowley snaps, pressing his shoulder to Aziraphale’s. “I can ask them to turn it down if you’d like.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Michael answers. “No need for that. We wouldn’t want to disturb the other party-goers.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Michael,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting with his fingers. Then he turns to Crowley, and for the first time since they walked through the front door, his smile is closer to the one Crowley’s more familiar with. “Thank you,” he mouths.

Crowley nods his head. The next time a waiter walks by, he asks for two waters, and the young lady smiles amicably at him and brings him two glasses of water.

The wankers in front of him delve into conversation about stuff Crowley doesn’t really understand. He knows what Aziraphale’s job is and knows what his duties are as a broker, but he doesn’t know the nuisances and details of it enough to follow the topic, so he keeps a lookout for anything that might make Aziraphale uncomfortable and for more snacks walking by on trays. They’re not as good as the Charcuterie boards Aziraphale makes himself—not even as good as the ones Crowley has bought for him as birthday gifts—but they’re still worth stealing, especially if they came from Gabriel’s money.

“What about you, Crowley?”

Crowley blinks behind the sunglasses and hums noncommittally. “Pardon?”

“Are you a broker, too?” asks Michael.

“Nah,” Crowley tells her. “I’m more of a self-employed man.”

“Crowley here has a flower shop that he fixed up by himself!” Aziraphale almost yells, excitement threaded in his voice.

Crowley shrugs a shoulder. He doesn’t think that his business is all that impressive, considering he mostly yells at his plants to keep them in line for any of his customers, but Aziraphale loves bragging about it to other people as if it were his own achievement. The praise makes Crowley secretly glow, and he can’t help standing a little prouder, his head tilted up just slightly.

It often sounds a bit too much like the kind of thing a romantic partner does— _Hey, look at my significant other and what they’ve accomplished, look at how proud I am of them_ —but Crowley knows that’s not how Aziraphale means it. Friends can be proud of each other’s achievements too, right? So what if Aziraphale’s eyes glow brighter when he talks about Crowley’s shop and his plants? Crowley thinks Aziraphale is capable of hanging the moon and stars in the sky, his enamored ass notwithstanding.

“Does he really?” Uriel raises a skeptic eyebrow. “You don’t seem the type to have a flower shop, Crowley. No offense.”

“None taken,” Crowley replies genuinely, knowing they fully meant it as an offense. “I get that a lot.”

The next thing happens in the blink of an eye, faster than either Crowley or Aziraphale realize it.

Gabriel wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and pulls him away with a quick, “If you’ll excuse us, I have something I must discuss with Aziraphale!”

“Oh, but,” Aziraphale protests, looking at Crowley for help, “s-surely whatever it is, we can discuss it right, um, right here!”

“Nonsense!” Gabriel cries. “We’ll be back in a moment!”

And then they’re gone from Crowley’s line of vision, having vanished amidst the crowd of drunk party-goers.

Before Crowley can excuse himself to go and find them, Michael, Uriel, and Sandy crowd around him and start asking him about his flower shop and what made him start his own business in the first place.

“How does something like that come to be?” asks Michael, sounding like she’s genuinely interested but with an air of nonchalance that fools nobody.

“Eh, I, just, y’know. Got a green thumb,” Crowley says, desperately standing on his tiptoes to try to find Aziraphale among the suddenly too many people in this goddamn party.

“You must’ve had other prospects, though,” adds Uriel.

“Not really.”

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Sandy tells him, too close to him for comfort. “Surely you must be a good businessman if you can have and handle a flower shop all by yourself.”

“Just work better on my own,” Crowley replies as he taps his fingers against his leg.

Every second that passes without knowing where Aziraphale is, without knowing what Gabriel might be telling him, is a second of pure _agony_ for Crowley. He doesn’t know how these bastards came up with this plan to split them up so quickly, how they pulled them away from each other without wasting any fucking time.

If Gabriel does or says anything to upset Aziraphale, _so help him_ , Crowley will bite his fucking head off.

His patience lasts only so long. After another stupid question that Crowley doesn’t even fully hear, he places his glass of water on the next empty tray that passes by him with a muttered word of thanks to the waiter and snarls, “’scuse me.”

He nearly shoves Sandy out of the way, decided to get Aziraphale out of this goddamn building now. He prays that his rude ignoring of his coworkers doesn’t jeopardize Aziraphale’s job and that they’ll blame Crowley for tonight being a disaster and for their stupid holiday party being ruined, but he cannot, in good conscience, leave Aziraphale alone with his wanker bastard of a boss any longer.

He finally finds them standing close to a bar Crowley hadn’t even noticed was there to begin with. Gabriel has positioned them in such a way that Crowley can see his ugly mug but only Aziraphale’s back, and even from this distance, Aziraphale’s tense shoulders are incredibly obvious.

Even though Gabriel has remained oblivious to Crowley’s presence, his expression shifts into a sneer, and he clasps Aziraphale’s arms again.

“Aziraphale,” he says, somehow audible over all the noise around them. “You don’t know what you’re saying. This is a great opportunity! Chances like this one aren’t going to come by again!”

“I am very grateful, Gabriel,” Aziraphale responds in the steeliest, most determined voice Crowley has ever heard him speak with. “But I’m afraid I must decline.”

“Aziraphale—”

“Everything all right here?” Crowley asks as he finally reaches his best friend. Gabriel’s hands drop from Aziraphale’s arms immediately, and Crowley takes the chance to bump their shoulders together, leaving no space between them.

_That’s right,_ he thinks at the sight of Gabriel’s barely contained disgust at having been interrupted. _You’re not getting rid of me that easily, shithead._

Aziraphale turns to look at him, and even through his sunglasses, his smile is bright and brave and so fucking beautiful that it makes Crowley’s heart do a somersault inside his chest. It is the single most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“More than, my dear,” Aziraphale answers, and there is so much more affection in those words than there ever has been in his voice in all the years Crowley’s known him. It’s almost a musical response, like Aziraphale is going to climb on top of the bar counter and start singing. “I was telling Gabriel that we were just leaving.”

“Great,” Crowley adds, unable to help himself. Thank fucking God, good riddance, _C’mon, angel, I’ve got a nice bottle from ’73 saved up in my flat._ “You ready to go then?”

“Absolutely.” And then Aziraphale wraps his arm around Crowley’s waist and pulls him closer until their hips bump and sweet mother of all that is holy, Crowley suddenly can’t breathe.

He freezes on the spot, not knowing what to do with his arms all of a sudden. He can keep his left hand in the pocket of his jacket, but his right arm is awkwardly trapped between their bodies, clammy and beginning to sweat. In an act of bravery (or stupidity) that Crowley will blame on the shitty, tacky holiday music, he wraps this arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and his best friend wiggles—fucking _wiggles_ —in contentment.

“What a lovely holiday party, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says to a glaring Gabriel.

“Aziraphale—”

“Though I must admit the snacks left much to be desired,” he continues, and Crowley can’t bite back the snort that comes out of him. Trust his best friend to lay a verbal smackdown regarding the party food. “Good evening, Gabriel! And please excuse me with everyone else, it was delightful to see them.”

“ _Ciao,_ ” Crowley says as his goodbye, relishing the look of complete disbelief on Gabriel’s face before he and Aziraphale turn around and make their way to the front door of the building, walking out into the open coldness of a December evening in London.

  


* * *

  


It is only until they’ve walked for about four minutes and thirty-eight seconds in silence that Crowley can’t stand it anymore.

“Aziraphale,” he says, and Aziraphale hums in response. “What was… that all about?”

“What?” his friend asks, and Crowley makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. He doesn’t know whether he means _this_ —the fact that they’re still holding each other in a way that screams _boyfriends_ or _lovers_ or… whatever—or what Gabriel offered that Aziraphale declined, as happily rejected as if he had been told his books would be getting mold.

“Just…” Crowley gestures vaguely with his left hand, keeping his right arm slung around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

Aziraphale sighs. His fingers curl a little closer around Crowley’s waist, and he brings them both to a stop. Crowley holds back a gasp with sheer force of will.

“Do you know,” Aziraphale says, looking up at the sky from where snow will most likely start falling any moment now. It’s been snowing so much lately, it’s a wonder it’s come to a stop for now. “I have… the most embarrassing crush on you.”

Crowley’s brain halts and makes the kind of noise a computer does when it’s trying to load a disc and is finding the task impossible. He tries to mumble something, anything, but his tongue gets twisted inside his mouth and what comes out of it is a combination of vowels and consonants that make no sense whatsoever.

“Or,” Aziraphale goes on, Crowley’s shameful attempt at speaking going unnoticed, “it would be a crush if it were something new. But it has been years now, so I believe that, at this point, it would be more appropriate to say that I am madly, embarrassingly in love with you.”

“You— I— Wh— Huh?”

“Mhm,” he agrees.

“What…” Crowley clears his throat. Aziraphale is still looking at the sky, and his cheeks are pink and flushed and Crowley wants nothing more than to kiss them and then kiss Aziraphale’s pretty mouth, the corners twisted in a shy yet hopeful smile. “W-what does… that have to do with anything?”

“I know they despise me,” Aziraphale says, and the resignation in his voice is almost enough to pull enraged tears out of Crowley’s eyes. “Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Sandy… They’re their own circle, and I’m just the broker, and I will always be. I know I’ll never be at their level.”

Crowley pulls away from Aziraphale so he can stand in front of him. Aziraphale is stubbornly not looking at him, but Crowley needs him to. He needs him to understand. Still riding on the high of Aziraphale’s earlier confession ( _He’s in love with me, he’s in love with me, I can’t believe this, he’s in love with me!_ ), Crowley holds Aziraphale’s face in both of his freezing hands and tilts it down to stare right into his best friend’s eyes.

“Angel,” he calls him, the ridiculously cheesy nickname that’s become as much of a title as anything. “You are so much better than them. They are not worthy of you, of your hard work and your time and your _presence_ , they should be so fucking lucky to have you in the same room as them!”

Aziraphale’s smile grows a bit sad, and Crowley wants nothing but to make it go back to the hopeful, bashful thing it was a second ago.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says quietly, almost an exhale. “I don’t care about what they think of me. I never have.” Then his eyes darken with the steely determination Crowley heard in his voice when he talked to Gabriel, and a pleased shiver runs down his spine at the sight. “But I will not allow them to speak ill of you.”

“Speak ill of—?” Crowley blinks behind his sunglasses, confused. “Wha— _What_?”

“Gabriel mentioned that perhaps I ought to… expand my social circle,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can hear the disgust he’s trying—and failing—to hide. “That I shouldn’t be _consorting_ with someone like you, as if you aren’t the most wonderful person I have ever met. And then he said he could send me to our offices in Norbury because it would be the ‘perfect spot’ for me and I would be able to climb my way up the ladder and grow my network, and so I very kindly told him to shove it.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cries as he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair, scandalized and more in love with his best friend than ever. No wonder Gabriel was so pissed off when Crowley found them. Oh, he’d have _loved_ to hear that.

“There’s lots of things I can tolerate, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his smile going back to the hopeful thing it was before and shifting slightly to the bright, brave, beautiful thing Crowley saw at the party. “But when it comes to you, I draw a very clear line.”

“You’re a bastard,” Crowley sighs, wonderstruck, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin. “You are _such_ a bastard and I love you so much.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, shining with the light of the stars above them.

“Crowley,” he says rather eagerly, his hands moving to rest on Crowley’s waist. Crowley takes the last step between them, still holding Aziraphale’s face in his fingers, his thumbs brushing his cold, rosy cheeks. “Do you— Are you really—?”

“What, desperately in love with you, too?” Crowley finishes, warmth flooding him as if he’d just taken a burning hot shower. “Have been for the past six years, angel.”

Aziraphale exclaims, the cutest _oh!_ Crowley has ever heard, and his eyes crinkle with the wideness of his grin, and Crowley loves him so fucking much.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, and then he pulls Crowley to him and tilts his head up and kisses him. 

Aziraphale’s lips are slightly cold, but they are so much softer than Crowley ever dared imagine, and he sighs and melts against Aziraphale, his best friend’s hands on his waist his only anchor, the only reason why his buckling knees haven’t sent him to the ground. Aziraphale gently swipes his tongue along Crowley’s bottom lip, and his touch is damp and hot and Crowley gasps and lets Aziraphale lick inside his mouth, his arms bursting into goosebumps beneath the fabric of his jacket. Aziraphale’s hands move to the small of his back, wrapping around his waist to rest on the spot where the curve of his spine ends, and when Crowley cups the back of Aziraphale’s neck, they both tilt their heads and open their mouths just a little more and _oh_ , that feels…

Aziraphale sucks Crowley’s top lip between his own and pulls back while still holding it in his mouth, and the _noise_ born of the movement as they finally break away from each other is the single hottest thing in the universe. Crowley wants to hear that noise, wants to _make_ that noise, over and over and over again.

“Oh,” Aziraphale exhales, nuzzling Crowley’s cheek. “Oh, Crowley, my love.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Crowley hisses, pressing a quick kiss on the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “You’re going to be the death of me, Aziraphale.”

“I certainly hope not,” Aziraphale jokes, his nose leaving a tingling sensation on every inch of Crowley’s skin it touches. “Goodness, Crowley, I’ve wanted to kiss you for ages.”

“You can kiss me all you want now,” Crowley rushes to say, not even embarrassed. “But maybe we could continue somewhere warmer? This jacket is stylish as all hell, but it’s not really helping me much.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Aziraphale giggles and kisses his nose. “What do you say if we go back to my flat and get you warmed up? We can open one of my leftover Châteauneuf-du-Pape bottles, maybe drink it by the fireplace…”

“Anything you want, angel,” Crowley tells him. “As long as I can keep kissing you.”

Aziraphale laughs, all giddiness and excitement, and Crowley feels his cheeks flush with it, he’s so happy he wants to scream. Instead, he kisses Aziraphale again and wraps an arm around his shoulders, getting them back to their previous position, their arms around each other. Aziraphale squeezes his waist and pulls him closer until walking becomes a bit awkward, but neither of them pull away. They take twice as long to reach Aziraphale’s ridiculously tiny flat, but they’re warm all the way there.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much to Nessa for organizing this!! please consider leaving a comment if you liked this, and thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> also please consider talking to me on [tumblr](https://animeangelriku.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/animeangelriku), where i’ve started trying to be more active. i’m awkward and desperate for friends please come say hi ;-;


End file.
